


the fires found a home in me

by Anonymous



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:39:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't," Clarke had said shakily as Bellamy kissed his way down her neck to arrive at the hollow of her throat. "Don't you be - don’t be nice to me." He’d thought she might have been trying to make a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fires found a home in me

**Author's Note:**

> Story: started this in season 1. Found it in a word doc and decided to finish it. Got to lazy to finish it. It ends completely abruptly and Bellamy doesn't get off and I'm posting it anyway because I have no shame. Title from Lorde's "Yellow Flicker Beat"

It’s a bad idea. 

Bellamy knows it, even as the frenetic thundering of the vein in Clarke’s neck, where it is pinned beneath his thumb, is trying to tell him something different.

It’s been a bad day. But bad in the banal way that bizarrely is somehow worse than the bad of an attack by grounders or a surprise appearance of acid fog. Bad in a way that leaves you plenty of time to think about it. 

An illness has been spreading with alarming speed around camp, some kind of flu, the kind that there is nothing in Clarke’s or anyone else’s power to fix, but try telling _her_ that. It isn’t life threatening ( _yet_ , she’d said desperately, _yet_ and it’s one of the things he likes best about her, her refusal to be consoled) but it’s still fucking awful to witness. Vomit and shit and tears, fever that seemed to make the air around the hastily appropriated hospital tent seem to swell. One voice, made unrecognizable by fear, that cried out endlessly for it’s mother. 

Clarke had come to his tent, and it had felt like they should be doing something with their hands, but neither of them could ever have the luxury to relax enough to do something like drink Monty’s hooch. 

She’d expressed, in far better words than he could, the exact shade of completely shitty life feels right now. “It’s days like this that remind you that it isn’t ever going to end. Not ever. Peace with the grounders, achieving more than just subsistence, we could accomplish all of that and we’d just be left with - “ Clarke commences a sweeping hand gesture that nearly costs him an eye, her mouth working helplessly.

“Life, princess?” He smirks, because the script seems to call for it. “There isn’t anything new about that.”

“Yeah, well. I thought it would be a lot more promising down here.” She says it almost angrily, and looks him right in the eye.

“For you, maybe. It’s more of the same for me.” That isn’t strictly true. When Jaha pardoned him, when Clarke had inexplicably smiled in relief at that, it had seemed like Earth might offer something more from life than anything he had ever thought to expect. But he thinks about Clarke, as one of the chosen ones, and what things, unimaginable to him, she might have expected out of life then. He thinks of her sitting in her cell for eleven months, knowing humanity was going to slowly suffocate. He thinks of her on ground, saying: _we’re better than this._

In the end, what does it all add up to? Just more life. Life as a fight. No use saying that should be enough for them. No use saying maybe someday the burden might be passed on to someone else. 

He’d kissed her first. 

"Don't," Clarke had said shakily as Bellamy kissed his way down her neck to arrive at the hollow of her throat. "Don't you be - don’t be nice to me." He’d thought she might have been trying to make a joke. She'd tugged his head back, with one sharp twist of her hand in the hair at his nape, propelling him backward with an equally sharp kiss to his mouth that has the taste of an apology.

Clarke knows what she’s doing, in that department. Like, really knows what she’s doing. He won’t say he’s surprised, because that would mean admitting he’s made assumptions about her sex life, but still - not what he expected. Not what he expected just from the way she’d first kissed him, closed-mouthed and desperate, which might have set the tone for the rest of - of whatever’s going to happen. But now she’s slowed down, now she’s turning him inside out slowly, with every press of her tongue, every snag of her teeth on his bottom lip.

He has this perverse urge to outdo her, to take charge, to set the pace himself, to make it into a back-and-forth. But he doesn’t. He let’s her push him back with nothing more than the pressure of her thumb digging in the to juncture between his neck and shoulder.

He has had let himself think about her rack though, even when he didn’t like her, even when she was just an obstacle to overcome. What was the use of fighting to live if he couldn’t enjoy things along the way, right?

So that’s what he focuses on. Clarke is stretched on top of him, full body, her hips cradling his waist. Her hands, buried deep in hair, jerk once, sharply, as he gets his hands on her breasts. Bellamy cups them, strokes her nipples, barely able to feel them through the many layers of clothing they all wear as the year drains toward winter. 

Then - suddenly, he hears an odd sound. It’s - yeah. It’s laughter. Clarke is laughing, and he’s never heard her laugh, before. Really laugh, belly-deep and shaking with it. It transforms her whole face. He stares for a moment, totally transfixed, unable to say anything, until annoyance takes over. 

“What.” He was trying to make it good for her, and this gasping laughter isn’t the usual reaction. 

“Ticklish,” she says, and he can read her lingering smile in her warm breath hitting his throat. He laughs too, then, an amused exhale. 

The whole moment has acted as a pressure valve, releasing some of the leaden, helpless feeling that had compelled them up to this point. 

Bellamy feels like this is the moment to stop this. She’s upset. He’s upset too, probably, and that’s why he’d kissed her. She’s upset - that’s why she’d let him, that’s why she’d kissed him back. 

“We shouldn’t -” he starts, but Clarke interrupts him. 

“Whatever you’re about to say, I’m pretty sure it’s my line.” 

Bellamy wonders if that’s true. It fits in with the Clarke he’s known, the Clarke she’s felt she had to be. He feels sometimes with her, lately, that they might be close to being able to meet each other in a space without the roles they’ve put on, the roles that, playing off against each other, have kept all of them alive for this long. 

But maybe Clarke doesn’t want that, here. Maybe, being Clarke the Leader, within this strange, contextless world of skin and nerves is what she needs right now. He thinks about what he might want, the armor he’s almost eager to shed, if she would ask it, and takes a quick mental step back from whatever precipice might be waiting. 

Clarke, assured again through his hesitation, having assessed the dangers and decided the risk is worth the rewards, looks into his eyes and says, “We both need this.”

Back into line, a worn groove for him to set his path to. “I thought you didn’t want me to be nice to you.” Never mind that this doesn’t make sense, that he broke that command almost immediately.

“There’s a lot of room in not nice,” Clarke says, and then she gives him another smile that he’s never seen before, mischievous, that says _what, are you new at this?_ Hey, no, he isn’t, and he can’t let that stand.

She kisses him, this time. 

Bellamy pushes her backward until she falls back onto his sleeping bag, the pause as they adjust just long enough for him to get a glimpse of her bright eyes and parted lips, framed by the halo of her hair on his pillow. They kiss again, messier, sloppier. Clarke’s lips graze his jaw, clumsy, eager, inadvertently tender. 

Bellamy isn’t thinking beyond this, the feel of Clarke’s hand resting hot on his face, thumb at his lips, forefinger at his hairline, the way her breasts are pressing against his chest. But Clarke, as usual, is thinking ahead. She pushes him off, and he goes, dazed, and then she’s shirtless. 

He really needs to stop with this “struck dumb and staring” thing. It’s pretty embarrassing. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, putting her hands on her hips, which makes interesting things happen with her tits, now covered with nothing but a black bra.

“Hi,” Bellamy says back, barely recognizing his own voice. 

“Do I need to give you instructions,” Clarke says, enjoying this entirely too much. In retaliation, Bellamy removes his shirt.

“I’ve seen you shirtless enough,” Clarke says and she’s good, her tone stays cool, but Bellamy’s eyes are back on her face and he sees her visible swallow, and watches as a flush spreads from her jaw, to her throat, and down to where black cotton meets flesh. “Is this,” a flip of her hand accounting for and then dismissing his torso, “supposed to impress me?” 

“I mean, kind of.”

Before she can even finish scoffing Bellamy reaches out and traces his thumb along that demarcation line, and he’s glad it has an effect. He’s satisfied by Clarke’s shaky inhalation, like just that is enough to take the air from her lungs, but really it was uncalculated. He just couldn’t help himself. The softness of her hot skin, beneath the calluses Earth has given him, is mesmerizing. 

Bellamy manages to get her bra off with a minimum of fumbling, and as he begins to touch her fully, she isn’t feeling ticklish anymore. Clarke’s head falls forward to rest in the crook of his neck. She bites at his throat. 

From there, it goes quickly. On the one hand, Bellamy thinks he could stay like the forever, hands stroking Clarke’s breasts and ghosting up and down her side, finding the notches of her spine. Her teeth at his collarbone. But at the same time, the dreamy mood is dissipating as quickly as it arrived, and Clarke is kissing him again, with an agenda in mind, and trying to unbutton his pants. 

Trying, is the key word. He’s kind of pleased when she can’t, that she finally loses her control a bit, fumbling and cursing before sitting back and saying, “God, _you_ do it.” 

He does, keeping eye contact with her the entire time and feeling ridiculous until he actually sees Clarke’s eyelashes _flutter._

It’s her turn to stare, frozen in place, and he gets both jeans and underwear off in a way that’s actually pretty undignified, but Clarke doesn’t seem to notice. He wonders what this is, the way that keep taking turns tonight looking like they’ve been clobbered over the head with a blunt object. 

Then their eyes meet and they just stare at each other for a minute. It should be weird, uncomfortable, it should make Bellamy want to climb out of his skin. But it doesn’t. It’s actually pretty typical for them. They just usually have clothes on. 

“I’ve done my part, princess. Now it’s your turn.” He’s a bit embarrassed about how hard he is, how he feels himself, already impossibly turned on, getting even more wound up as she looks at him. 

Clarke lays on her back, and the way her breasts obey gravity and settle against her arms as they take off her pants is distracting enough he doesn’t notice for a moment that Clarke has left her underwear on. For him to take off.

Bellamy moves forward. He slides his hand, palm flat, from under her breasts down her stomach, watching the goosebumps that form in its wake. 

But Clarke isn’t having it. 

“Get on with it,” she says, and drags her foot along his shin, trying to pull him closer. This is so typical. Of course she’d question the efficiency with which he went about fucking her.

“I am getting on with it,” he says, genuinely put out, because maybe he had been getting a bit sidetracked. Distracted by her. He gets his mind back on task. 

When he pushes a finger into her he can hear the noise it makes, she’s so wet. It’s his turn to rest his head against her shoulder. 

After a few minutes, his fingers moving inside her, against her, she takes his hand and shows him exactly what she wants. 

“Bossy,” he says, and he’s never been less upset about it. 

“You were doing fine but just for,” and here she says _oh oh oh_ as he shifts his arm, at the guidance of her hand on his wrist, and the three fingers inside her turn up and drag against a deep taut place, “future reference.” 

She probably doesn’t mean it. She’s probably not thinking about what she’s saying because at that moment her entire body jerks, like her spine is a puppeteer's string. Her cunt clenches around his fingers, and he almost comes himself at that, at the feeling of the muscles in her thighs as they constrict around his arm. 

Bellamy is angled over her, on one arm that is suddenly trembling slightly. Clarke glides her hand down slowly from where she had been gripping his shoulder, her nails turned inward and sharp against him.


End file.
